


Things In Bloom

by SunlitStone



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, First Kiss, M/M, Spring, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 11:29:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunlitStone/pseuds/SunlitStone
Summary: He could feel the warmth soaking into him, like—like honey into the dough, in those pastries Finch liked. They'd watched a documentary about it, the other week.He found himself smiling. There wasn't any reason, he thought, not to pick up some of those pastries on the way in to the library.





	Things In Bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Small_Hobbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/gifts).



> Hi, Small_Hobbit! I hope you had as good a time writing your fic as I did writing this for you, and I hope you enjoy the fic. Have fun! :)

John's apartment was flooded with sunlight.

He took a moment to stand in front of the window; even this far into May, this year, the nights were still cool, and it was nice to have some warmth in the morning. He could feel it soaking into him, like—like honey into the dough, in those pastries Finch liked. They'd watched a documentary about it, the other week.

He found himself smiling. It was a beautiful day: the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and down in the park the trees were bearing bright green buds. It was still too early for the old men and their game boards, but he could see them in his mind's eye, playing contented throughout the day. There wasn't any reason, he thought, not to pick up some of those pastries on the way in to the library.

—

It was a nice walk, too; even with the sun, the air was crisp enough that he didn't get too warm. He let himself enjoy the sights: the early flowers, candy-bright in their spring colours, the birds come back north for the summer, and—a little to his surprise—even his fellow pedestrians. Everyone was mostly focused on getting where they were going, of course, this was New York, but he thought he could detect a little of his good humour spread out among the rest of the crowds. One woman, a birder, maybe, spotted a bird and started beaming on the spot, like she couldn't believe her good luck. John knew the feeling. He wished her luck, and walked on.

Finch still hadn't called by the time he'd gotten to the library, which meant they didn't have a number yet. He let himself think about what they could do instead, climbing the stairs, holding the bag with Finch's pastries in his right hand and his own coffee in his left.

Bear was barking excitedly at his approach, and Finch turned to greet him, smiling faintly; his smile broadened at the sight of the bag in John's hand, and he started clearing a space on the desk for the pastries. "Any particular occasion, Mr. Reese?"

John shrugged, heading over to the cupboard to get a plate to put the pastries on; no point getting Finch's desk dirty. "It's a nice day."

When he looked around Finch was looking at him, smiling softly, the corners of his eyes turned gently upwards. There was a look on his face John couldn't quite identify, but it made something twist inside him anyway. He did his best not to notice. "It is indeed," Finch said.

They took their time over breakfast, parcelling out the pastries over coffee and the lingering remnants of Finch's tea and conversation John wasn't surprised any longer to find easy, hadn't been surprised for a while; and Bear, of course, giving them longing looks. Harold told him very sternly to go, but John couldn't help but notice that he let a larger piece fall to the floor than crumbs could account for.

They spoke about last night's game—Finch's opinion was that the home team's showing had been "reprehensible," while John took the opportunity to needle him by pretending to support the visiting team—a book John had read on Finch's recommendation, a movie coming up this weekend they both thought they might enjoy. As Finch munched on the last pastry, John glanced at the time and was surprised to realize three-quarters of an hour had gone by. But then, it was that sort of day.

He looked back at Finch to find Finch watching him consideringly. They still didn't have a number. "Any plans for the day?" he found himself asking.

Finch was still looking at him carefully. "Nothing I can't postpone," he said, and nothing more.

Finch was leaving it up to him, then. John wasn't sure if what he was feeling was gratitude or aggravation or—something else, like a balloon expanding under his ribs. He took a deep breath. Let it out. "It might be nice to go walk Bear by the park," he said. "Do you play Chinese chess, Harold?"

The corner of Finch's mouth quirked up in acknowledgement. "I know the rules," he admitted, "but I can't say I'm much of a player." He hesitated. "I suppose I don't see any reason not to try."

John felt odd, almost lightheaded. He was getting enough air; he knew the library was well-ventilated, he'd checked the systems himself. "Sounds like a plan, then," he said, deliberately light. "Shall we?" He stood, and went to fetch Bear's gear while Finch cleared off the crumbs from the plate. They walked together down the stairs, Bear eager ahead of them but still careful not to pull on Finch's hand on his leash and throw him off-balance. He was, John thought distantly, really much too good a dog to have been left with his original owners. 

Back out in the sun John could feel himself relax; it was easier, somehow, out in the open air. He gestured for a taxi.

"Really, Mr. Reese," said Harold. "There's no need for that." He sounded almost embarrassed.

"We can get out halfway there," he said. "Come on, Finch, I know you know how long the walk is." He couldn't put into words why it was so important to him that Finch come back to the park, his park; but the last thing he wanted was for Finch to suffer for it.

Finch made a few more noises, but John ignored them, finally catching a taxi's attention. They all piled in, Bear then Finch then John, and John gave the driver an extra 50 bucks for letting a giant Belgian Malinois come in the cab with them. "Corner of Prince and Mulberry," he said, and eyed Finch surreptitiously; that was really more like two thirds of the way there. But Finch was paying attention to Bear, and didn't seem to notice.

They couldn't talk about anything too serious in the cab, and Finch seemed inclined to silence, anyway; he was looking thoughtfully out the windshield, except when he turned his head to look thoughtfully at John instead. "Would you mind opening the window?" he asked, after a couple of minutes had passed. He leaned back, apparently enjoying the fresh air, and Bear's head came up, sniffing excitedly. It was nice, John had to admit, but it didn't make a single moment's difference to his awareness of Finch, pressed tightly into his side by Bear opposite.

They got out by the cathedral and walked the rest of the way. Finch's gaze was darting around, mimicking, John thought, his own journey earlier: the birds, the flowers, the bright blue sky. It really was a nice day. 

"Would you care to play a game?" said Finch suddenly.

John blinked. "Finch?"

"Chinese chess." Finch was smiling. "Since I gather that's our ultimate destination..."

Reese laughed. "I don't know about you, Finch, but I don't think I could hold the whole board in my head."

"Your Mr. Han does," Finch pointed out. He'd never met the man, to John's knowledge, but of course this was Finch; he probably knew where Han did his dry-cleaning. Probably John shouldn't find it warming. "I used to do it for chess...I suppose it's easier when you're more familiar with the game."

"You used to play blind chess?" said John, trying to sound casual. Finch looked up at him, amused.

"Really, Mr. Reese, I don't think you're going to divine my origins from my chess-playing habits."

"You never know," John said, making himself sound very serious. "Did you win any awards? You did, didn't you?"

"Harold Wren won some unofficial accolades," said Finch. "Mainly I got Nathan to upend his beer over his head."

Reese actually laughed out loud at that one. "I don't know, Finch, that seems pretty tame." He was grinning now. "You couldn't go for anything a little more dramatic?"

"Oh, I tried," said Finch. "Unfortunately by then Nathan knew me well enough not to take any more, mmm, expansive bet."

"But he still bet against you for the drink?"

"He never could resist a challenge." The corner of Finch's mouth curled upward in memory, and John felt his own heart tug in return.

"Do you still play?" He didn't think he'd ever seen Finch with a board; there wa none back at the library, though of course that didn't mean anything.

Finch's smile shrank. "I'm afraid I found myself rather losing patience with its metaphors." Then he glanced at Reese, and a light came back into his eyes. "Don't worry. I'm still willing to give Chinese chess a try."

John nodded back, somewhat relieved. "I'd like to introduce you to Han, if that's all right."

"Mr. Han? Certainly," said Finch, unruffled. "As a friend from work?"

"It's more or less the truth."

Finch glanced at him again, smiling. "Certainly. How is he at teaching, do you think?"

John felt his own lips quirk up at that one. "Like you don't know more than I do." At Finch's raised eyebrow, he answered the question anyway. "Not bad. Gentle, patient. You'll be in good hands."

Finch hesitated for a moment. "I rather think I already am," he said, quietly.

John had to swallow around the lump in his throat before he could speak. "Yeah. Me too."

The sun was higher in the sky than it had been when John had been looking down at it earlier, and the shadows were different, but it felt just as nice to be there in the park as he'd imagined. Han was there, at his usual table; from the looks of things, he was just finishing up a game. He stood with Harold for a few minutes and watched, murmuring explanations of the moves. It felt odd, somehow, to be explaining things like this in person, instead of over the phone, but apparently Finch's knowledge didn't actually encompass everything except guns.

Though it would take in this one soon enough, he suspected. A couple more games and Finch would probably be beating him cold. Like the thought of Finch's surveillance earlier, it should have bothered him but didn't. It was another gift Finch had given him, he realized; not just a purpose, but someone he could trust enough that he was all right that Finch was keeping an eye on him, was more than smart enough to outwit him, because he knew that Finch used that knowledge to help him do his job. And another gift, that he was still capable of that kind of trust. The thought warmed him all over, like the sun had, earlier, in his apartment.

—

He introduced Finch to Han as "my friend Harold, from work, he's interested in learning Chinese chess." Han, who was a perceptive kind of guy, had learned not to ask too many questions about what exactly John's work was, but he greeted Harold's interest with enthusiasm. Harold was pleasantly polite in return, focused on the game and calling him Mr. Han, but John noticed that he never forgot to say his move out loud. John sat nearby with Bear and watched them play, soaking in the sun and the moment both.

He'd been right about Finch, too. By the end of the first game, his ease with the game had improved a lot; by the end of the second, he could have been someone who'd been playing casually for a couple of years. Han, smiling, turned his head in approximately Reese's direction. "Are you sure he didn't know how to play?" he said, humour in his voice. "I think we've both been taken in!"

"Now you know how we all feel at the office chess tournaments," Reese said sadly, biting his cheek to keep from smiling at the look Finch threw him.

"I'm afraid I've just got a good head for games, Mr. Han," Finch said. "It was a pleasure to play with you, though. Thank you."

"Not going to stay for another game?"

"Unfortunately Bear is getting restless," said Finch regretfully. It was true, John knew, though he'd been very patient. "It will have to be another time."

Han smiled across the board at Finch. "I'll hold you to that." He held his hand out over the board; after a moment, Finch took it and shook.

They walked together around the park for another half-hour at a gentle pace, not talking about anything in particular; Finch told John about the birds he'd seen around the park, their names and habits, and they discussed which of two promising new restaurants to try out next—John suggested the Vietnamese, but only because he wanted to see Finch argue for the Indian—and every moment John felt something building in him, spreading out over him like cool air coming in out of the heat. Finally they sat together and let Bear off the leash, watching him run around the park like he was determined to cover every inch of it.

John had to do something. He knew he did, but he couldn't quite bring himself to say what, to step over this gap and turn onto a new road. He sat quietly next to Finch, and stared straight ahead, not looking over even when he felt Finch do so next to him.

There was a pause, broken by Finch's hesitant voice. "Forgive me if I'm prying, Mr. Reese. But—did you have something you wanted to say to me?"

John turned to look at him then, unable to help it. Finch's gaze was steady, not yielding but not pushing either. It was going to be up to him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them again. He knew what he wanted to do, now; what he didn't know was how to put it into words. He reached for Harold's hand instead, and Harold gave it to him, easily and open.

He brought Harold's palm to his lips, and kissed it.

A smile spread over Harold's face, transforming it entirely. John watched transfixed. There was the look again, from earlier, and this time he was able to identify it: tenderness, he realized, it was tenderness. He felt his own face smiling helplessly in return.

"You were right, John," said Harold softly. "It really is a beautiful day," and he brought his hands up to the back of John's neck, and brought him gently down, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is taken from A. E. Housman's ["Loveliest of trees, the cherry now"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44411/a-shropshire-lad-2-loveliest-of-trees-the-cherry-now), and more specifically the last stanza:  
> 
>
>> And since to look at things in bloom  
> Fifty springs are little room,  
> About the woodlands I will go  
> To see the cherry hung with snow.


End file.
